


Twisted

by Rhuia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Non-con voyeurism, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhuia/pseuds/Rhuia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re so lost in each other, so tangled and drenched in the sex, that John almost misses the slight movement out of the corner of his eye, the mirror reflecting a pale face at the door, the shift of a long black coat as it whirls away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twisted

 

“God you’re gorgeous,” pants John, lifting Belinda’s leg a little higher.The new angle changes his thrust, takes him deeper, and they both moan.

The room smells like sex and her perfume, musk and lilies.“There,” she says, “oh god there please, please,” and throws her head back, hips pushing at him.John locks into her, hits the spot that makes her writhe and she comes, tightening around him, crying out.He comes too after a minute, teeth gritted. 

They’re so lost in each other, so tangled and drenched in the sex, that John almost misses the slight movement out of the corner of his eye, the mirror reflecting a pale face at the door, the shift of a long black coat as it whirls away.

-

They’re lying in bed afterwards, damp and drowsy, when Belinda runs a hand down his chest and murmurs, “did you see? At the door?”

“Mm,” he says, putting a hand over hers, half-asleep, not really wanting to deal with it just now.How long had he been there? And oh god, the thought of Sherlock watching the two of them have sex …he’s not sure if he feels like something under a microscope, or if it’s the other thing: the low, dark slither so deep inside he almost can’t see it.He doesn’t know.He just wants to go to sleep.

“Does he always do that?” she asks.“Come and watch?”

“What?” He almost bolts out of bed.“No! No.He probably wanted me to get him a glass of water or change the channel on the telly or something.”

“All right love, settle down,” says Belinda, laughing.“It’s just,” she says contemplatively, after a minute, “he was there for a good few minutes.I thought maybe it was something the two of you did.”

John groans.A few minutes, god.

“Do you know, there’s this thing called a post-coital glow? It’s relaxing, you must try it.And no, funnily enough,” he says, closing one eye and squinting at her with the other, “I do not have a secret voyeur arrangement with Sherlock, whereby he lurks in the doorway and watches me shag my girlfriend.”

Belinda looks at him thoughtfully.

“Shame,” she says. “Would you like to?’

-

The next morning, John almost bumps into Sherlock as he’s kissing Belinda goodbye.

“Bye Sherlock!” she sings out, as she leaves. 

_ A good few minutes _ , John thinks.

“Awful weather,” he says, closing the door.“So clammy for this time of year, don’t you think? Bet summers weren’t really better when we were kids.I remember clammy.Oh yes, all too well.Clammy,” he says, and dives for the kettle.“Tea? Lovely.” 

The convenience of being British, frankly, cannot be overstated at times like this.

Sherlock looks bland.“I spent _my_ childhood summers trying to find potential serial killers in our village.By seventeen I was doing it nationally.It was a year-round job by then.I saved summers for the body searches.”

“Exactly,” says John, “ _Exactly_.”

Sherlock sighs.“Look we don’t have—”

“—any sugar?Bugger!” John croaks out, and then, improvising madly, “Honey! People do that.Let’s give it a go, eh? Live a little.Nothing ventured, etc.”His face falls.“Did you leave any in the jar after the thing with the cockroache—no.No, didn’t think so.Right. _Right_.”

He makes the tea anyway.It’s too hot and burns his tongue, which gives him valuable fumbling time; he pretends it’s worse than it is and the next five minutes are a flurry of _ouch_ and _can’t talk, burnt tongue, ooh that smarts_.

“If you’re finished?” asks Sherlock, finally.

“God yes,” says John, exhausted.

“Right,” says Sherlock, “come on, Lestrade’s got something slightly interesting for us to look at.”

-

‘Slightly interesting’ turns out to be Fiona, Lady Bludgin, Baronetess.

“Terrifying,” Lestrade hisses at them, before he pulls the door open to the interrogation room.“Mad as a bag of grasshoppers.Calls me ‘inspector’ like it’s a _sex word_.”

Lady Bludgin’s perched on a chair, elderly, tiny, immaculately suited.

“Oh inspector,” she coos.“You’re back.” She peers around him.“With civilians!”

Lestrade grins weakly.“We’ve had to call in a consultant,” he says.“Quite the case, this one.”

“Lovely!” says Lady Bludgin, and captures and strokes his hand.Lestrade breaks out into a gentle sweat.

Sir Bludgin’s gone missing.“The last time I saw Islington, he was bundled up in the car with the most terrible head cold, but so insistent that he had to be at work.His secretary says he never came in.That was a week ago.”Her face creases, all soft wrinkles and sorrow.

Sir Bludgin is, of course, Dr. Sir Islington Bludgin, Bart., eminent cardiologist.John’s neither met nor spoken to him.Too rarefied for a rank-and-file medic like him.

Lestrade’s checked with friends and family, there’s no ransom note, no clues to go on, the driver dropped him at Paddington Station, which wasn’t unusual, and Lord Bludgin was in excellent spirits on the morning he left, his cold notwithstanding.He’s vanished into thin air.

“You know about the mistresses, obviously,” says Sherlock.John and Lestrade both start, and open their mouths to object, but Lady Bludgin gets in first.

“Oh obviously,” she says, smiling, but her face suddenly sharpens.Her eyes lose their fuzzy warmth and recalibrate on Sherlock.“But I usually get flowers halfway through _those_ assignations.”

Her face gentles again.“Poor Islington, he feels so horribly guilty about it every time, I wonder why he bothers.He’s in physical agony for _days_ afterwards, moaning and stretching hamstrings and things.”She purses her lips.“The last time he came back with an enormous cut on his calf.It was ghastly.Can’t think what they get up to.”

“Er,” Lestrade looks harried.“What is his excuse for the times he’s away?”

“Oh inspector.” She laughs.“We’ve been married for forty years.You run out of excuses after the first twenty.It’s usually a medical conference,” she says, waving a hand, “or a week’s consult somewhere abroad.He actually had to have a rabies shot before he went on one particular trip.I do remember thinking _rather her than me_ at that point.”

She looks at them tolerantly.“One doesn’t like to air one’s dirty laundry and so forth, but of course I _absolutely_ trust in your discretion if dear Inspector Lestrade’s called you in.”

Lestrade makes a tiny, whimpering sound.Lady Bludgin’s still holding onto his hand.

-

They’re at Sussex Place, at the Bludgins’ city house.Sherlock’s been given free rein on poking into things.He’s in the Bludgins’ wardrobe, sifting through Sir Bludgin’s things.

“You can tell a lot about a person from their accessories,” he says, rummaging in a drawer that’s full of neatly coiled belts, all partitioned off from each other.He pulls the drawer right out and his eyes light up.

“A man with these in his belt drawer,” he says, reaching in and pulling out a pair of purple men’s braces and holding them up triumphantly, “is trying to tell the world something.Very loudly.”

“I’ve got braces,” says John.Purple _is_ an interesting colour choice, but Lady Bludgin’s downstairs ‘keeping visiting hours’.Who really knows what insanities the upper classes allow themselves?

“Mm, you must wear them tonight,” says Sherlock, absently, “No, a man with a drawer-full of sensible leather belts and one set of purple braces shoved to the back, a man who comes back from an _affaire de coeur_ in physical pain – that’s a man with secrets behind his secrets.”

John stares at him.Did Sherlock just …? John shakes the thought out of his head.No.No.Research, not flirting.

It turns out, of course, that Sherlock’s right.Lady Bludgin lifts an eyebrow at the braces and declaims all knowledge of them, as does Sir Bludgin’s valet.

-

Belinda cooks them dinner that night.John was thinking the three of them in a room together would be up there with digging his back teeth out with a fork, but it actually goes quite well, up to a point.

Belinda makes pasta, they eat it on the sofa, no-one mentions last night, they watch QI, Sherlock gets the history questions right and gets enraged with the pop culture ones.

John gets gently sloshed because he’s not stupid, he can see the ambush coming and he wants to be as ready as he’ll ever be when it’s sprung.

Then Sherlock says, “I’d better,” and leaves without another word.

“The thing is,” says Belinda, swinging a leg over and straddling him, “I like being watched.”

John sighs.“Yeah, I gathered that,” he says.She leans in and nips at his neck, runs her fingers through his hair and tugs his head back a bit.

“I like knowing someone’s watching you, too,” she says, huskily, “watching your arse thrust into me, my legs all wound around you”.Her hands are under his shirt now, fingers flicking over his nipples, and he groans a little.She’s so lovely, so strong and fearless, and now she’s rubbing against his erection, bottom swaying and brushing over him.He wants to strain upwards, pull her down onto him, get rid of all these _sodding_ clothes.

“But,” Belinda says, now moving in closer, so her nipples brush against his chest, “not if you don’t want to.Not if,” and she pushes down finally, finally, with her hips so they both gasp for a minute from all that very nice pressure, “not if it makes you uncomfortable.”

John gathers together the bits of his brain that aren’t addled by lust or alcohol.“You’re sexually manipulating me into this, you know,” he points out, trying to unbutton her jeans.

“I know,” says Belinda, grinding down a bit more, “is it working?”

Sherlock watching, Sherlock’s eyes on him, christ.

“What about my spotty bum?” he says, “and my hairy back? I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.”

“You’ve got a lovely bum!” Belinda protests.“And you don’t have a hairy back.Stop making silly excuses.Just say if you don’t want to.”She’s serious now, all worried and frowning.

He pulls back to look at her.She really is gorgeous, and she really does care.And god, she’s amazing in bed.He’s gone along with everything she’s wanted to do, and it’s all been better than it’s ever been before.

“I assume you’ve, ah, discussed it with – ?” He makes a vague circling motion with a finger.She smiles.“All set.Just waiting for you.”

Sherlock’s eyes on him, Sherlock’s eyes on him.John blows out a puff of air.“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, okay. Now kindly get your pants off _this_ _instant_.”

-

They make it to the bedroom, fumbling with buttons and zips and condoms and snorting with laughter.Belinda takes a second to grab her phone and send a text.“It’s to Sherlo – ” she starts to say, but John waves her into silence.

It’s fine, they’re going to do this, she and Sherlock have obviously had a chat, yes absolutely fine.He’s buggered if he wants the administrative details, let’s _go,_ oh my christ, before he remembers every single thing wrong with his body.

Their clothes come off in wicked little motions, a shoulder here, the brush of naked skin against his stomach there– which is so much fun that he almost manages to forget about this thing he’s roped himself into – and then they’re on the bed, his thumbs are rolling tiny circles on the dark, pebbled nipples and Belinda’s panting under him.He’s thinking, _god she’s amazing_ , and, _I want to taste it all_ , when he feels it – eyes on his skin, his back, his arse.

He shifts a little, trying not to think about old acne scars and hair in the wrong places.It’s hard not to.The sheets feel tangled and scratchy under him.

“Right,” he whispers, all the happy alcoholic haze fleeing his body, “ _Right_.”

“Mmm,” she says, wriggling under him, “come on, gorgeous.”

He clears his throat, massages her breasts.She shifts after he’s been at them for a while, looking apologetic, and dislodges one of his hands. _I’ll just_ , he thinks, and leans in for a kiss, but he’s forgotten to take the other hand off her other breast.Belinda lets out a little wheeze when he crushes it as he bends down.

“Sorry, god, sorry,” John hisses, pulling his hand away.

Belinda, bless her, smiles encouragingly and wriggles under him. _Right_ , thinks John, _in with the fingers_.He’s about to start his hand wandering south, when he suddenly feels cold and wet around his groin, and looks down.The condom’s slipped off.Which is fairly reasonable, given it doesn’t have an erection to cling on to anymore. 

Belinda looks down too, and her smile fades.She bites her lip and looks away.John lets himself think wistfully of last week’s sex.He’d thought it was incredible.Belinda had probably been bored.

Belinda looks up at him suddenly, as if she hears that thought.“He _wanted_ to, you know,” she says, quietly, fiercely.“It was his idea, he wanted to watch, _he_ asked _me_.”

“Oh,” John says.

_ Oh. _

He doesn’t turn around and look at Sherlock, who’s still there, alone in the shadows.Alone in his dark corner of the world, watching it move around him.

He doesn’t turn around.The low dark thing deep inside John moves a little, raises its head.He recognises it.It stirred in him that first time they’d been in the cab together: _amazing_ , he’d said, _extraordinary_ , watching Sherlock’s reflection in the window while London flickered by, stone and brick and shop lights.Sherlock’s face, unguarded and soft with surprise for a moment.

His skin prickles all over, his stomach twists a little with fear, with danger, with sorrow.

John curls his fingers around Belinda’s jaw, pulls her mouth open, and kisses her, slow,deliberate.“It’s all right, love,” he murmurs against her lips, when her breath hitches.

He bends to lap at Belinda’s breast, knows his tongue’s being watched.He licks a little harder, uses his teeth.Her nipple pearls in his mouth, small and sweet.Have her breasts always been this soft? She moans under him and twists her hips.He puts a hand on her stomach and holds her still.

The shadow in the door hasn’t moved but somehow John knows it’s a little more intent now.He doesn’t look at it.

When she stops moving and looks at him wide-eyed, he says, “here, I think,” and licks his thumb and draws it down her stomach, through the small darkness of her navel, down, down, down, through her pubic hair and onto the soft wet stroke of her clit.

“Come on,” she pants, trying to twist again and he firms down on her stomach again and holds her completely still.He puts the heel of the same hand against her clit and rubs it against her, slowly, gently.It’s just enough pressure to make her writhe and swear.“Don’t move,” he says.He loves watching her like this, hips pistoning, eyes desperate.

The darkness in the doorway stirs.

“Don’t move,” he tells her softly, “and you can have a bit more.”

“Oh.” Her head falls back.She goes still.“Please.”

“Look at you,” he says, taking her in: swollen lips, flushed cheeks, wet breasts.“Just look.”And then he goes to town: bends his head down, flattens his tongue and laps and laps at her till she’s making high, panting noises.His face is wet and his jaw’s starting to hurt, but he can still feel those eyes on him, leaving a trail like fine, hot sand everywhere they touch, silky and dry and burning.

Belinda starts to come, gasping his name, so he takes his cock in his fist, pumps once, twice, feels something in the room quicken, something that includes all three of them and wants to say _I know, it’s all right,_ out loud, but he can’t, he doesn’t.He’s not sure who he’d be talking to.

Fear flares low in his gut.

He comes with a groan, his mouth still around Belinda’s clit.

-

Belinda leaves early for work the next morning, and he has to go into the clinic, so it’s not _technically_ sneaking out, because she’s doing it too.He doesn’t see Sherlock.

He manages fine during the day.He’s almost painfully hard for most of it, but he manages.

-

Sherlock texts him just as he’s finishing up.

_ New development in Bludgin case.Meet at Sussex Place.Come at once.SH _ .

-

It’s chaos at Sussex Place when John gets there.There’s detectives swarming all over the place, and Lestrade’s looking grim.Lady Bludgin’s on a loveseat, pale and tired.

John makes his way over to Sherlock, who’s standing at a table, looking down at something on it.When he gets close enough, he sees it’s a man’s suit jacket.Grey worsted wool, very expensive, cuffs frayed and burnt. 

“Sir Bludgin’s,” says Sherlock, looking up.“Lady Bludgin caught a busker outside the Regent’s Park tube station wearing it.She recognised it from the pin on the lapel,” he motions to it.It says ‘Esecutore, Milan 2010’.

Sherlock frowns.“Lestrade’s called foul play.”

It’s like last night never happened.There’s nothing in Sherlock’s eyes but exactly what’s in front of him.

“Have they got the busker?” John asks.

“No,” Sherlock says, absently, fingering the pin.“He got away before Lestrade turned up.”

“What’s it mean?” asks John, touching the pin as well.Their fingers meet.John feels his mouth go dry.There’s nothing on Sherlock’s face as he moves his hand away.

“An executor of a will or a performer.Makes no sense. You wouldn’t call it typical jewellery for man of Sir Bludgin’s position, either, would you? No,” he forestalls John, “Lady Bludgin has no idea.He just always wore it, she says.”

“The busker.Lestrade’ll never find him.Homeless Network?” John asks, trying to think past that fleeting, cool touch.

“Homeless Network,” Sherlock agrees.

-

They get a cab home, stopping under a bridge for Sherlock to slip a twenty-pound note and details to a man curled up under a piece of cardboard.

When they get home, Sherlock paces the flat, frantic.“Burnt cuffs.Why burnt cuffs?”

John’s desperately trying to focus, so he can only say, “he burnt himself? He was near a fire?”

“Burnt himself how? It’s in perfect condition otherwise,” says Sherlock, picking up the bow to his violin and swinging it around.“Not a mark on it, but .. _burnt cuffs_.Hands held over a fire to torture him? No, why would they leave his jacket on? Not a chemical burn either.”The bow’s whirling giant circles in the air.

“I texted Belinda,” John says.“She’s coming over soon.”

Sherlock stops mid-pace, his body turned slightly away from John.His face is in shadow.The bow keeps moving, _thrumthrumthrum_.

“Yes,” he says.

-

John’s almost crawling out of his skin when Belinda arrives.

Something must show in his face.Belinda’s pupils dilate when she sees him, and she licks her lips.She doesn’t say a word, just jerks her head in the direction of John’s bedroom.

They only just make it past the bedroom door before he’s got her clothes off, and his clothes off, and she’s kneeling on the floor, soft wet mouth around him.Her tongue’s snaking around him and her teeth are lightly dragging down the length of him when Sherlock appears in the doorway and it’s a shock because they’re so close they could almost touch.

Belinda has her back to the door, but she must know when he appears because she looks up at John, and her eyes suddenly go languorous and heavy.

He wonders what kind of picture he makes, standing there: short, stocky limbs, scars silvering his body, his cock disappearing into Belinda’s mouth.His mouth must be open and soft with pleasure.His hands must be unclenched.

He touches Belinda’s hair, her cheek.She’s crouched on the floor.Every part of her ismesmerising.

“Love your mouth,” he says, gently holding her head in his hands.The words hang loose and soft in the air.Sherlock’s eyes go dark.

She closes her eyes and her cheeks hollow as she takes him in.“Your tongue, god yes, sweetheart, that,” he says, because she’s lapping at the underside of his cock.She makes a sighing sound, and it shivers through him, and then she’s grabbing his arse, pulling him in deeper.He shoves into her mouth, the heat and softness engulfing him, whispering, “you’re amazing, amazing.”

Sherlock stands immobile and tense, his eyes locked on John’s.There’s something tight and desperate and terrible in them and John wants to reach out a hand and put it on the doorway.Next to Sherlock’s shoulder, which is leaning against it.They’re so close.He could do that, he could do it easily.

Belinda does something with the suction and he comes, jerkily,unexpectedly, his head thrown back, a metre of long empty space between him and Sherlock, and Belinda’s perfect mouth swallowing, swallowing.

When he opens his eyes, of course, Sherlock’s gone.

-

When John’s getting dressed the next morning, he’s reaching for his pants when a thought suddenly strikes him and he opens his sock drawer.His braces are coiled underneath a layer of handkerchiefs.He puts them on, goes instantly, dizzyingly hard and wonders if masturbating to the feel of army regulation British elastic means anything less than complete insanity.

He’s off work the next morning, and it’s just as well because Sherlock bounds into the room as John’s having breakfast and almost hisses, “come on, come on” as he throws his coat on.

There’s no time for anything then – no awkwardness or hurt or confusion – because the Irregular at the end of the street’s got an address for another Irregular, who’s got another, and they run, walk, hail cabs for short, tense rides and the trail goes through five more before the final one rubs his hand over the fire in the barrel and says, thoughtfully, “Yeah, I know ‘im.You askin’, mister Holmes?”

“I’d consider it a personal favour,” says Sherlock, quietly, and John notes that, this time, no money changes hands.

The homeless man nods, and shuffles over to a trolley full of cardboard boxes.He rummages in one, and pulls out a flyer.It’s a little tattered, but the bright, warm colours on it are still vivid, and says _Anjos do Picadeiro!_

It’s a carnival of some sort, jugglers and performers and musicians grinning up at them.

“He gave it ter me,” he says, “one day when it were raining.I asked him fer something colourful.I likes to have a bit of colour on me at all times, see.”

Sherlock almost staggers back, claps his hands over his mouth and shouts, “Esecutore! Esecutore!” into them.

He uncovers his mouth and looks over at the two of them, grinning madly.“Stupid, I’m so stupid I could shoot myself,” he announces, and the Irregular by John’s side grins back and says, “Southbank, mister Holmes.”

“Thank you, Daniel,” Sherlock says.

-

“So he’s here,” says John, as straight-faced as he can, “dressed, er, up.”

“Yes yes,” says Sherlock impatiently, scanning the crowds.They’re at Southbank, pushing through groups of rapidly moving people, with the gleam off the river in their eyes.He goes still.John follows his line of vision to a portly street performer who’s in whiteface, upside down and pedalling a unicycle in the air while juggling three large melons at the same time.

John looks at Sherlock.“You are _completely_ having me on.”

Sherlock looks back at him blankly, and for the first time in this exhausting day, John feels a shiver of memory run through him because that’s the face Sherlock had on last night.Only the eyes had been alive in that still, stony face.

“It’s a valid form of performance art for a given value of art,” says Sherlock, “defined by nothing tangible and subject to no form of logic at all and so completely not worth bothering about, if anyone ever bothered to think about it.”

He holds up a hand and ticks off on his fingers: “Purple braces, constant physical injury, rabies shots for when he went to perform in Rio, _Escutore_ : his _performer_ badge from the Milan Clown Festival, and oh yes,” he looks pleased with himself now, “burnt cuffs from fire juggling, the big finale to his acts.”

“Why was he gone so long?” asks John, as they near the busker.

“Big events, John,” says Sherlock, impatiently.“Rio, Milan, and -- “ he taps into his phone and holds it up for John to see, “our very own local one: Bognor Regis International Clown Festival.”

John squints at it.“Sussex again?Christ.”

The hat’s getting passed around when Sherlock steps up to the performer and says, “You really need to stay in touch with your wife during these escapades, Sir Bludgin.Inspector Lestrade of the Yard’s got his officers combing the city for a dead cardiologist.I believe terrorist cells that target the peerage are on the list as well.”

Sir Bludgin starts, flails his arms and drops flat onto the ground.

“I do have a doctor with me,” Sherlock says – unnecessarily drily, John thinks.

Sir Bludgin stands up, raises extravagantly blacked eyebrows and touches a fingertip to the teardrop drawn under his eyes.

“No no,” says Sherlock, impatiently.“Mime’s not traditionally part of the whiteface oeuvre.”

Sir Bludgin strokes the flower in his lapel.It makes a sad sort of chirping sound.

“Circoarts is a growing performance area,” says Sherlock, “there’s no reason it can’t be a legitimate hobby.”

Sir Bludgin slumps.

Sherlock pats his shoulder, awkwardly.

John, who thought he had nothing to contribute, says, “clown therapy’s very popular in the paediatric oncology ward at St Bart’s.”

Sir Bludgin shrugs, still slumped.John clears his throat.“I could, er,” he says, “I could have a word with the coordinator.We went out a couple of times, she’s very nice.And, um, discreet.”

It’s a point of joy for John in years to come that he’ll always remember the strangest moment of his life being the time that Dr. Sir Islington Bludgin, Harley Street cardiologist and peer of the realm, looked at him with a flicker of hope on his face and handed over, with gentle dignity, a single white dove made of cheese.

“Thanks very much,” says John.

“My dear boy,” says Sir Bludgin, and goes to get the hat.

-

When Belinda comes over that night, and they’re in John’s room, he doesn’t touch her.Doesn’t move until he sees the shadow move into place in the doorway.Even then, all he does is take off his clothes.Belinda takes off hers.

“Come here,” John says, and she comes to stand in front of him.

He touches her collarbone with a finger.“Here,” he says.

He touches the skin just under her left breast.The flesh there is so soft. _Here_. The hollow of her inner elbow. _Here_. The little lower belly. _Here_. He turns her around, one hand on her shoulder, the other on the swell of her hips.

The small of her back.The overhang of flesh where her buttocks turn into her thighs.The fleshiest part of her calf. _Here_. _Here_. _Here_.

Places he could touch on anyone.Anonymous, common places.

He kisses them all, one by one. His breath warms each spot before his lips land on it.

When he stands back up, Belinda’s eyes are glazed over.“What’s going on,” she says, faltering, but she curls her fingers around his biceps at the same time and squeezes gently.He shudders, and reaches for her and then they’re kissing, so wet and deep he doesn’t know where his mouth ends and hers begins.

“Please,” she says, breathing into him, sweetly frantic.He lies down, puts the condom on and pulls her on top of him.“Like this?” she asks, hovering above him, pale and strong and beautiful in the gloom.

“Just like this,” he says, rubbing her thighs, and smiling up at her.He’s facing the door, lying on his back. 

It’s everything.It’s nothing.There’s someone watching him.There’s no-one here but Belinda.

They fuck slowly, gently, whispering to each other in the dark: _yes, god you’re, never been so, please oh please please_ , until Belinda comes, eyes wet, body open like a star.

John comes straight after, sweet and soft.

The shadow disappears.Belinda’s collapsed on top of him but she raises her head at the movement and then looks at him.“You really like this,” she says, thoughtfully.John wonders whether he’s meant to be ashamed now, or enthusiastic, or … no, he has no idea.

“Yeah,” says John, hesitantly.

She shuffles up his body and plants her elbows on either side of his head.Her eyes are directly above him and she looks at him for a long moment before she says, “No.You really _like_ this.”

John looks away.“Yeah.”

“We need to stop, then,” she says, and when he looks back at her, she’s smiling.“You’ll want to tell him.”

It’s terrifying, but they’ve come this far.“I – all right,” says John, but he knows he’s said it too quickly, that the fear’s shown through, because Belinda softens and says, gently, “come back to me, John.When it’s done, all right?”

And, oh she’s so smart, she knows, she’s snatched him back from something that would swallow him alive if they let it.

“Yes.Yes.God, I love you,” he says, and kisses her.

-

Sherlock looks up from his laptop the next morning when John walks in and says, “Lestrade called.Lady Bludgin’s asked for a divorce.”

John sighs.“That’s a shame, I thought she might find it just a little, oh I don’t know … endearing?”

Sherlock shrugs.“He’s hidden it from her for a long time.I suspect she’d have preferred a mistress.”

“I liked him,” says John, putting the kettle on.“Or,” he muses out loud, leaning against the bench, “I felt sorry for him and liked him for it.He’s so Harley Street, you know, so completely untouchable.It made him a little more of a person; a bit more human, a bit less _distant robot_ , if you know what I mean.”

It’s only after he’s said it that he goes cold inside and wants the words back.He didn’t mean – it doesn’t mean – and the silence goes on and on until the kettle turns itself off with a snap.

Sherlock is staring at his laptop, at some site about coal and how it burns.There’s a small caption flashing insistently in one corner of the screen.

“Sherlock,” says John, the cold spreading all over him now.

“Lestrade wants a statement from you,” Sherlock says, finally, closing his laptop and standing up.

He looks at John. “Tell him I’ll see him tomorrow when you visit him, will you?”His eyes are perfectly flat, and his voice is perfectly even.

John’s hands feel clammy.“Yeah,” he says.“Yeah, okay, I will.”

-

Belinda doesn’t come over that night because it’s movie night with her girlfriends.John makes dinner, waits for Sherlock to come home.It’s eleven before he gives up and goes to bed.

He’s woken up a couple of hours later by ... something.A sound? A feeling? He gets up, follows it until he’s standing in front of Sherlock’s room.There’s the faintest glow coming from under the door, which is ajar.

The sound’s coming from inside the room.It’s as familiar as rain.John fights and fights with himself until there’s no fight left in him, and then slides slowly through the gap in the doorway till he’s half through it.

Sherlock’s on the bed, naked.He’s in front of the mirror, his legs folded under him.His fist is clenched around his cock, and the sucking, wet sound it makes is dreamy and slow.His other hand’s loose and relaxed on his thigh.He turns his head and looks straight at John.

He’s been waiting, John realises. _Yes_ , he thinks, _this way.This way_.

He gets on the bed, kneels up behind Sherlock.They watch their reflections, watch as John’s arm comes around Sherlock’s chest.It looks strange in the half-light of the room, covered in blue check cotton, plain and ordinary against Sherlock’s skin.

John breathes, pulls Sherlock in closer.He turns his nose into Sherlock’s hair.He’s allowed this much – just this much.

“Come on,” he whispers.

Sherlock smiles, a faint, dry crook of the mouth.“Always running toward it,” he says, and John feels his heart tear a little.

“Always running,” he agrees.It comes out too loud, too quick, the sound you make when you forget and rub the open wound against something.

Sherlock lets his head fall back against John and puts a hand over the arm crossing his chest.Their eyes meet in the mirror and Sherlock must see it in his face, the way this thing’s stretching him almost past the point of return, because something in his eyes eases.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, very quietly, and moves his other hand up, down, up, down.

His cock hardens and leaks and John wets the roof of his mouth with his tongue, feels the low dark thing rear up and move into his throat.It grips him there, keeps his voice in his body while he watches Sherlock move his fist faster, eyes alight and locked on his, faster still now.

And then Sherlock says, almost to himself, _John_ , and shakes and comes, pulsing all over his hand and his legs, chest heaving.John holds him through the shudders, keeps the warm back pressed against him, wants it all, everything.This, and the other.More, all of it.

So it’s lucky that he can’t speak, can’t say a word, can’t shape his lips to anything.

They hold each other’s gaze a long minute.

There are no questions in Sherlock’s eyes, nothing but what’s in front of him.

_ Come back to me _ , she’d said.

John closes his, sits back and presses his forehead against the nape of Sherlock’s neck.He finds his voice.

“Okay,” he says.“Okay.”

He leaves.When he slips into bed and falls asleep, he doesn’t dream.

-

He comes in the next morning to find Sherlock burning pieces of coal on the stove, wearing asbestos gloves.He’s got safety goggles on.

He throws the piece of coal he’s holding into the sink and stalks off to his laptop.

“Fifteen minutes to bituminous over anthracite,” says Sherlock, jabbing at the laptop with one enormous gloved finger.He doesn’t look at John.

John puts the kettle on.It’s bright outside.There’s a patch of sunshine lying on the sofa, square and precise.He’s off work today again.Sarah texted him earlier and said they didn’t need him.

“…which means the explosion didn’t come from the west side of the tunnel, and Anderson’s got it wrong again.Oh, wrong again and again and again, it’s christmas!” says Sherlock, ripping his gloves off.

“Got anything coming up?” John asks.

Sherlock drums his fingers on the table for a minute, and then glances over at John.

“Someone’s sent an email to the blog,” says Sherlock, casually, “something about a missing rabbit.Just read it out, will you?”

So John does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sherlock Summer Vacay fest over at the sherlockmas comm. Title and inspiration for the story come from Arthur Conan Doyle's 'The Man with the Twisted Lip'.
> 
> Beta thanks go to Cyphomandra.


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